


Weed Smoke & Hearth Fire

by damnfancyscotch



Series: Whimsy & Confusion [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, But He Doesn't Tell Stiles About Werewolves, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Scott McCall is a Good Friend, Secrets, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Stoner Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 13:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10617453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnfancyscotch/pseuds/damnfancyscotch
Summary: “Are you smoking weed?”“Uhhh,” the teenager scoffs. “Judge, much, dude? You don’t haveeyebrows.”-----Or, the one where Derek and Laura are back in Beacon Hills to find something and Derek keeps falling into a stoner's backyard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright!!
> 
> So, there are some trigger warnings for this one, things to do with not knowing if reality is actual or all in someone's head and some lying by friends and loved ones. Please read them if you think you need them. Keep yourselves safe.
> 
> Enjoy, lovies!

Derek scrambles up a tree, feeling like a treed animal, heart pounding. He listens hard, trying to hear if the Hunter that’s been chasing him since Maple is following.

When he doesn’t hear anything for ten minutes, he glances down into a fenced-in backyard. He drops from the branch into a crouch on the grass, taking a deep breath and rolling his neck, letting out a low growl at the inconvenience.

“Jesus Fucking H. Christ,” someone drawls.

Derek whips around and has to pull back a snarl when he sees a teenager sitting on a chair swing underneath a flowered arch. He’s about to leap over the next fence, legs tense to spring into motion, when a sharp scent pulls at him. He turns back and hisses, “Are you smoking weed?”

“Uhhh,” the teenager scoffs. “Judge, much, dude? You don’t have _eyebrows_.”

Derek is torn between irritated and incredulous. This fucking kid and his _very_ pungent marijuana and his bruised cheekbone and his annoying smirk – who the hell does he think he is?

“Alright.” The teenager slaps the top of his thighs and stands from the swing. “Since you’re obviously not real, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, incredibly ripped figment of my imagination.”

With that, he walked up the porch stairs and inside the house, shutting the door behind him and turning off the light.

Derek stares after the teenager for a minute before he mutters, “What the fuck just happened?”

He could brush it off, he thinks, when he finally leaps the fence and makes his way home, to let it go as a chance encounter that will never happen again.

His resolution to do that, however, is broken quickly when two nights later, he finds himself in the same backyard, blinking stupidly at the teenager who’s very clearly stoned again.

“Bro, I’m telling you, if you don’t stop falling into my yard, I’m gonna start to believe that you’re real,” the teenager states, pointing at him with a stern finger.

“This isn’t something that I plan,” Derek grunts as he pulls himself to his feet. He can feel his eyes flash at the pain in his leg.

“What’s with your eyes?” the teenager asks, chewing his lip. “And your face?”

“Rude,” Derek informs him, preparing himself to pop his knee back in place.

“Just curiosity, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” He takes a deep breath and snaps his knee back into the right place. He groans, falling back onto his ass.

“Did you just – oh my god!” The teenager hops off the swing and almost falls himself before he staggers his way over to drop to his knees next to Derek. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Derek studies the teenager. “You shouldn’t get this close to strangers.”

Brown eyes roll. “While you’re like the embodiment of _Stranger_ _Danger_ , dude, I’m _not_ scared of you.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, wondering if this kid is brave or just stupid.

He shrugs. “I’ve got a good feeling about you.” He looks down at Derek’s knee. “You gonna be okay?”

He wants to tell this kid that trusting him without knowing anything about him is insanely stupid, but instead he says, “Doesn’t really hurt much now.”

The teenager stares at him hard, his heart beating faster, hands clenched into fists. “You healed just now, didn’t you?”

Derek stares into the sharp gaze and – for some damn reason – answers with total honesty, “Yes.”

The teenager shakes his head, spitting, “God _dammit_.”

“What?” Derek watches as the teenager angrily gets to his feet and storms into the house, slamming the door behind himself.

He shakes his head, waiting until he’s able to get up and make it over the fence before he pulls out his phone and calls Laura.

“No luck. I got pinged by the Hunters again.” He thinks of where they picked up his trail. “I think they have a base near Maple.”

_“Stay away from Maple then,"_ Laura growls. _“Come home. We should talk about the other wolves in town. And I think we need to go to the vault.”_

He sighs, knowing that digging through the vault will likely take a while, but they’re out of other leads. “Okay. Be there soon.” He hangs up, drops his phone in his pocket, and pushes himself into a sprint.

\-----

Stiles thinks he’s maybe going a _liiiiiittle_ insane.

Well, more insane than usual, which is pretty amazing considering, well, _considering_. He’s just so wigged by everything lately that he even thinks about giving up his weed. 

Okay, so he’s not really going to give it up – it’s the only thing that helps. But maybe like, not smoke _as much_ or something… whatever, things are fucking weird lately.

Because last night, for the third time in a week, a guy has ended up in his backyard, the same guy. Though, this time, the guy that looks remarkably like a movie wolf-man is bleeding and half-conscious.

“Whoa, hey man, you okay?” Stiles asks, watching as the guy’s head lifts up and his eyes try to focus.

“Y-You…” The guy grunts before shuddering and throwing up all over Stiles’ grass.

“Jeez, dude.” Stiles is half-offended by the greeting and half-concerned. He nudges the guy with his shoe. “Aren’t you gonna do the weird healing thing again?”

The guy groans and grabs Stiles’ shoe. “Bullet.”

“What?” Stiles leans closer. “What did you say?”

“Bullet…” The guy grits out, panting. “Need… bullet…”

“My dad’s got bullets inside,” Stiles offers.

“Nggghh,” the guy gurgles, which is totally not helpful.

“Shit.”

Stiles looks around, wondering what the hell he did in a past life to deserve everything that’s happening, before he squats down and grabs the Wolf-man under his arms.

“Motherfucker, you weigh a ton,” he groans, dragging the guy to the porch. He manages to get the guy up the steps, though it takes a lot of effort, and halfway in the doorway before he falls back on his ass on the linoleum.

“You could help a little, you know,” he gripes, but he knows the guy’s passed the fuck out. “Fucking hell.” He rests for another minute before he starts dragging again.

It takes almost fifteen minutes but he finally manages to get the guy to the foot of the stairs. “Okay.” He squats down by what he can’t help but notice is a really handsome face. “Don’t kill me for this.” He rears back and punches the guy, hard. “Ah fucking shit fuck!” he howls, shaking out his hand and jumping around.

The guy comes to a little, blinking his eyes.

“Hey, hey.” Stiles ignores his hand and squats down again. “What kind of bullet do you need?”

The guy whispers something and Stiles leans closer. “What?”

“Wolfsbane,” he says, pressing his nose and mouth to Stiles’ cheek. “Wolfsbane.”

Stiles jerks back from the hot breath wafting over his cheek and neck and ear. He rubs at his skin. “Dude, I don’t think he has anything like that.”

“Does…” the guy pants, hand clawing at his collarbones. “There.” He flings his free hand toward Stiles’ dad’s office door.

“Oookay.” Stiles shakes his head. “This is crazy.” He goes into the office, easily opening the safe and pulling out all the containers of ammo his dad has, including a random wooden box with bullets that have a purplish sheen, bringing them out and spreading them by the guy’s head. He looks at Stiles. “Dude, you’ve gotta help me out here. I don’t know which is which.”

The guy’s eyes drop to the bullets and he jerks his chin at the wooden box, because of course he does.

Stiles pulls one out and holds it out to the guy.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Open it. Burn…” a low groan curls from his throat, “burn the powder.”

“My fucking life,” Stiles gripes, running to grab a pair of pliers and the candle lighter from the kitchen. He manages to pry the bullet open, spilling powder that makes his fingertips tingle onto the floor. “Here goes nothing.” He holds his breath and lights it, waving the smoke away as it burns his eyes. When he looks, there’s a small pile of fine ash. “What now?”

The guy pulls his shirt aside, pointing to a fucking bullet wound on his shoulder.

“You want me to put that in there?” Stiles asks, ignoring the way his voice cracks. “Are you insane?”

“Do. It,” the guy gasps.

“Ugh, fine!” Stiles grabs some of the ash and sprinkles it on the wound, watching as the guy winces.

“More.”

“Disgusting,” Stiles mutters, grabbing more and putting it in the wound. He’s about to pull his hand away when the guy grabs it and mashes his palm against the bloody mess. “Oh god! What the fuck?!”

The guy doesn’t answer, muscles scrunching up as he almost seems to convulse. When the tremors stop, the guy releases Stiles’ hand.

The skin of his shoulder is completely healed. Not a mark on it.

“What the fuck?” Stiles breathes, leaning close. “This is incredible.”

“Glad I could entertain you.”

Stiles looks up and can’t help but grin. “What _are_ you?”

The guy’s eyes are clearer than before and the irises are some color that Stiles has never seen. “If I live, I’ll tell you.”

“Very funny.” Stiles glances up the stairs. “Think you can make it upstairs? My dad is supposed to be home in like an hour and he’ll flip if he sees you.”

The guy nods, using the wall to get upright. He leans there, breathing hard, and looks at the stairs like they’re his worst nightmare.

“Here,” Stiles offers, slinging one of Wolf-man’s arms over his shoulders, “come on. I’ll help.”

Together, they manage the stairs, though there’s a terrifying moment where Stiles is convinced they’re about to go toppling backwards. Wolf-man snags the banister and keeps them from going down.

Stiles leads the guy to his room, feeling a little self-conscious about the mess, but he doesn’t hesitate to sit the guy on the edge of his bed. He reaches back and tugs the blanket up, arranges the pillows to lie flat.

“There.” He looks at the guy who’s swaying in place a little. “Maybe we lose the jacket, yeah?” He glances down. “And the incredibly muddy boots.”

The guy toes at his boots but Stiles ends up having to unlace them and pull them off for him. Same goes with the leather jacket. He manages the get the guy settled and he passes out immediately.

“Dude.” Stiles looks at his hands, covered in some sort of black goo. “This is so gross.”

He studies the guy, Wolf-man, whatever, and decrees this to officially the weirdest day of his life.

He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, scrubbing at the junk under his fingertips. After that, he cleans up the downstairs, where more black goo is on the floor from where he dragged the guy through the house. He mentally thanks the builders of the house that they put wood floors on the first floor of the house.

After everything is tidied, he goes back up to the bedroom and plops down in his desk chair, resolving to watch the guy and make sure he’s okay.

When he wakes up the next day, he’s alone, with a crick in his neck, drool on his cheek. His bedroom window is open, a slight breeze moving his curtains, and his bed is perfectly made.

“Goddammit,” he breathes, pressing his hands to his face and wondering if everything that happened the night before was all a fever dream or another hallucination.

A couple hours later, after a panic attack that leaves him shaking, he’s almost convinced himself that none of it was real. Then he finds a hand towel covered in black goo on the floor of his bathroom.

He maybe has another panic attack.

Two days later, Stiles is putting away groceries from his trip to the store when he notices that there’s someone outside on the swing. He tries to calm his racing heart and peeks out the back window.

He recognizes the person’s outline, or thinks he does, and turns on the porch light before he opens the back door.

_Wolf-man_ , he thinks when his eyes adjust. Out loud, he manages, “Uhm…”

Wolf-man almost smiles. “My name is Derek.

It’s the first time he’s seen the guy when he hasn’t been stoned beforehand. “Hello, Derek. I’m Stiles,” he says lightly. “Is… is there something I can do for you?”

_Something else_ , he thinks, _since I definitely saved your ass the other night._

“We need to talk.”

Stiles takes a breath, to tell him to fuck off, or give a simple no, or something, but he catches sight of Derek’s face. Something there has him blowing out the breath and rubbing at the back of his head.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But I’m gonna go get my bowl. I need to be stoned for this.”

Derek nods and Stiles goes back inside, shutting the door before he heads for the stairs.

What the fuck is he doing? Who the fuck is this guy? He seems real, so maybe he is? Stiles scrubs at his face and takes a calming breath.

“He’s real. The guy downstairs is real and his name is Derek and you’ve seen him several times looking like a giant wolf-man creature and you saved his life a couple nights ago by breaking open a mysterious bullet and putting the burned ashes into his gunshot wound.”

He looks in the mirror on the closet door and laughs too weakly to be called “hysterical” but it’s pretty damn close.

“Oh god.” He laughs again, grabbing his bowl and his stash bag. “Oh god,” he repeats before he goes back downstairs.

\-----

The porch light turns off and the teenager – _Stiles_ – reappears outside.

Derek refrains from asking if Stiles is freaking out because Derek can smell that he is. He relocates, settling himself on a low bench a few feet in front of the swing, and watches as Stiles sits on the swing and prepares his bowl.

Stiles is muttering under his breath as he grinds the weed, the motion sending a strong whiff of the plant into the air.

Derek can’t hear what he’s saying but he doubts it’s anything he really needs to hear. He allows Stiles to light the bowl and take two large drags, to exhale a large cloud of silvery smoke, before he clears his throat.

Stiles licks his lips and motions for him to get on with it. His brown eyes are a little wide and his heart is beating a bit quicker than normal but he seems a little better.

Derek decides to just put it out there, clenching his hands on the edge of his seat. “I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just gives a curious _hunh_ and lights his bowl again. He holds the smoke in for a long time and exhales very slowly, straight up into the air. When he brings his head back down, he locks eyes with Derek and says, “Werewolf.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Okay then.”

He stares at Stiles. “‘Okay then’?” he echoes, tight hold on the bench falling loose as he blinks at Stiles. “That it?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, I think it is.” He flicks the lighter again but makes no move to use the flame, just lets it go out. “Good to know I wasn’t hallucinating you.”

Derek can’t help but quip, “Hallucinate a lot, do you?”

Stiles’ mouth twitches. There’s something off about his tone when he says, “Used to.”

“I… I was kidding,” he stammers, feeling like an ass.

Stiles lifts one shoulder. “Like I said, it’s nice to know you’re real.” He cracks a wide smile, shaking his head a little. “But werewolves, wow. Did _not_ see that coming.” He pats the seat next to him on the swing.

“Well, it’s not really something we tell everyone about.” Derek rolls his eyes and, against his better judgment, moves to take the seat next to Stiles, making the swing sway.

Stiles snorts, starting the swing back on it’s proper course. “Yeah, I can see why. Kinda, you know…” He waves a hand in front of his face and curls his upper lip in a pitiful snarl. “It’s weird.”

Derek has the urge to shove him, though not completely murderously, more like the way he and Cora used to shove each other. With affection, and maybe a little too much force. He settles for a gentle nudge and a playful, “Shut up.”

Stiles grins at him and takes another hit, holding it in before courteously exhaling it away from Derek, the smoke mingling with the night air before it disappears. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Mmhmm.” Derek looks up at the stars, adding another tally to his _I Almost Died_ list. “Why does your dad have Wolfsbane bullets?”

He feels Stiles shrug. “He’s the Sheriff. Though I’m incredibly nosy, I don’t always ask him as many questions as I probably should.”

“Did he say anything about the missing bullet?” He looks over at Stiles.

“No,” Stiles hums. “I don’t know if he ever uses them.” Stiles looks at him. “Or what he would use them for.”

“Werewolves,” Derek supplies.

Stiles snorts. “Oh, right, of course.”

“There _are_ a couple in town,” Derek says, then wonders if it’s such a good idea when he sees Stiles frown.

“What? Really?” Stiles asks.

The confusion seems genuine which makes it so much stranger that he smelled two other wolves in Stiles’ room when he woke up. Still, maybe Stiles really doesn’t know. But he probably should, even though it’s really not Derek’s secret to tell. “You know them, or they know you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No way, man. You’re the only werewolf I know,” he states, but he doesn’t sound confident about his words.

“Your bedroom smells like two other wolves. One of them is here a lot, enough to leave a strong scent, and the other isn’t around as much.”

Stiles looks at him, eyes narrowing as he mulls over the words. Instead of asking more about his friends’ potential werewolf nature, he asks with suspicion, “What are _you_ doing in town?”

“What?”

Stiles gives him a look. “I know you don’t live here, dude. I would have seen you.” He gestures to the area around him. “Beacon County is big and all, but I know I would have remembered seeing you.”

Derek almost smiles. “I’m looking for something.”

“And that is…?”

“My sister says that it’s a Spark.” He rolls his eyes. “But that’s all the book we found told us. It could be _anything_. An actual fire, or a stone, or even a place.”

“Huh.” Stiles picks at his fingernail. “Well, that’s annoying.”

“Tell me about it,” Derek sighs.

Stiles gives him a commiserating look. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence until the kitchen light turns on, casting squares of yellow light over the grass.

“Dad’s home.” Stiles shoves his stuff into his pockets and stands. “So,” he licks his lips, shrugging, “I guess I’ll see you around.”

Derek nods. “I have a feeling I’m going to see you again soon.”

Stiles smiles, dipping his chin. “Good night, Derek.”

“Good night, Stiles.”

Derek waits until Stiles is inside, chatting with his dad, the mysterious Sheriff who evidently knows about werewolves – or at least some part of the supernatural world – before he slips into the shadows at the back of the yard and jumps the fence.

When he gets back to the ruins of the house, he finds Laura in the basement, staring at the door to the underground tunnels with her hands on her hips.

“Any luck?” he asks, leaning against the charred door frame.

“No,” Laura snaps. She drops her hands from her hips and gestures at the door. “This stupid thing is impossible.” She takes a deep breath and turns, head tilted curiously. “Why do you smell like weed?”

Derek ignores the question. “When are we going to see Deaton?”

The distraction works.

“Oh, god, I don’t know.” Laura rolls her eyes. “I couldn’t stand that guy when we were kids. He’s probably more of an ass now than he was then.”

Derek shrugs, barely remembering Deaton, just his taciturn nature and that he was “super important” because he was their mom’s Emissary. “He’s probably one of the only people left in town that can help us.”

“I know,” Laura grumbles. “I just really don’t like him.”

“Well, figure out when we need to meet him. The Black Moon is in less than a week.”

“Ugh, you’re the bossiest beta ever,” she gripes, wiping her hands on her pants as she leaves the room, shoulder-checking him playfully as she passes. “Let’s go for a run,” she suggests before hopping up the stairs.

“Sure.” Derek follows, stopping in the entry way to kick off his boots and shed his jacket, laying it over the banister.

“You’re it.” Laura grins, eyes flashing red as she runs out the door, taking off into the woods.

Derek gives her twenty seconds before he darts after her.

\-----

Derek drops next to him on the swing. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just sits and listens to the night sounds around them.

There’s a pile of spent sparkler sticks on the ground by Stiles’ feet and Stiles sees the werewolf look at them. He offers, “Sparklers were our thing, mine and my mom’s. She loved the smell.”

Derek studies the side of Stiles’ face and still doesn’t say anything, clearly understanding the past-tense phrasing.

“You want?” Stiles asks gruffly after a bit, holding out his bowl.

“Ah, no, I don’t want to waste it.”

“You wouldn’t. Werewolves can totally get high.”

Derek snorts. “You didn’t even know werewolves were real until a few days ago. How do you know they can get high?”

“I don’t.” Stiles shrugs. “I just think they probably can.”

“Well, I think I’ll just take your word on that one.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles mutters.

Derek glares and gives a big push off the ground, sending the swing back then forward.

A whoop of laughter bursts from Stiles’ throat. He sees Derek smile just a little bit and he runs his eyes over Derek’s features, noting the plane of his cheek and the thickness of his eyebrows. He changes the subject. “Why are you looking for the Spark?”

It takes a minute for Derek to answer. “There’s an artifact that we found in South America. It…” He clears his throat. “It’s supposed to have the power to bring the dead back to life.”

Stiles digs his feet into the ground, jerking the swing to a halt. “Are you fucking serious?” Derek doesn’t look at him. “Hey.” He pokes Derek in the side until the werewolf looks at him. “Who are you trying to bring back?”

The response is so quiet, Stiles almost doesn’t catch it. “Our family.”

Stiles stares at him, racking his brain and picking at the itch, trying to fight his high. “You’re…” It clicks, all of a sudden. “You’re Derek _Hale,_ aren’t you?”

Derek’s fingers dig into his knees. “Yes.”

“Shit.” Stiles says, rubbing at his hair. “That’s… wow.” He winces. “Sorry. That’s not what I, uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek grits out.

“It’s really not, but okay.” Stiles frowns, trying to figure out his thoughts. “So, this artifact. What does it do? Does it actually bring people back? Like, full self, everything?”

“According to the legends, yeah.” Derek makes a frustrated sound. “But, of course, we can’t know for sure until we find the Spark. Which our pack had, at one point, but it’s lost now.”

Stiles can’t help the stupid smile that curls across his lips. “You lost your Spark?”

Derek bumps shoulders with him. “Shut up. It’s not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Stiles kicks his feet a little, enjoying the feeling. “So, if you found the Spark, you’d be able to bring your family back?”

“We think so.” Derek sighs. “We _hope_ so.”

_What wouldn’t I give to bring her back?_

“I think…” Stiles starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. Everything’s a mess.” He wiggles his fingers at his head. “Too much weed.”

Derek looks at him curiously. “Why _do_ you smoke so much?”

Stiles laughs. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles taps his fingers on the side of his head. “It helps with my faulty brain.”

Derek frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I told you I used to hallucinate sometimes. I used to hear whispering and I would sleep walk, too, wake up on the side of the road or in the woods in the middle of the Preserve. It… it was really bad for a while.”

Derek studies him for a moment. “Did you go to the doctor?”

“I had to. My mom,” he clears his throat, pushing past the tightness, “died of frontotemporal dementia. We were worried as fuck for a while that that’s what it was, because it’s genetic and some of the symptoms were the same, you know? But it wasn’t.” He clears his throat again. “The same, I mean. My brain is totally fine, apparently.”

Derek is silent though Stiles can tell he’s clearly mulling over the information. The silence does what it almost always does to Stiles: it makes him talk more.

“I look just like her, you know, my mom,” Stiles continues. “I think… I think it was hard for my dad, for a while, after she died.” He snorts. “And then everything happened and I could tell it was killing him a little, every time he had to come get me. It was bad times, man.”

Derek presses their knees together, just a bit, a silent gesture of comfort and Stiles thinks that maybe he’s pushed Derek’s boundaries a little too far for one day.

“I’m sorry, dude.” Stiles scrubs at his face. “I’m rambling and being a dick. Today’s just a _really_ terrible day for me.”

“Don’t.” Derek shakes his head. “I’ve had more than a few terrible days myself.”

“I can imagine.” He winces again. “Fuck. Sorry. See?” He points at himself. “Asshole.”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything.” There’s something bitter in Derek’s words but Stiles just _can’t_ anymore today. “You’re not an asshole.”

“Well, I hate to unload my mental anguish on you and run, but I’m gonna go drown myself in nachos and Bob’s Burgers until I pass out.”

Derek stands up, clasping him on the shoulder, pointer finger barely brushing his neck. “Get some sleep.”

Ignoring the way the tiny bit of skin-on-skin contact seems to burn, he nods and steps away, watching Derek’s hand fall back to his side. “Okay.” He goes up the stairs, not looking back until he’s about to shut the door.

Derek’s eyes flash blue in the darkness and, while the sight should probably freak him out or make him run for his meds, it comforts him in the oddest way.

“Good night,” he calls.

“Night.” Then Derek is gone, over the fence in a flash.

“My life,” he sighs, shaking his head and locking the door behind him.

\-----

The day before the Black Moon, Stiles asks, “What do I smell like?”

Derek studies him for a second. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I read a lot of stuff online about werewolves,” he ignores Derek’s snort and pushes on, “and most of the stuff said that smell is like a _thing_ with you guys.”

“‘You guys’?” Derek echoes.

“Werewolves.”

“Of course.” Derek rolls his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m curious.”

“Okay…” A small smirk worms its way onto his lips. “Weed and Cheetos.”

Stiles bursts out laughing. “Oh fuck off, even I can smell that.” He pushes at Derek’s shoulder. “Come _on_. Tell me.”

“Fine.” Derek leans close and Stiles holds his breath, heart jittering in his chest. “You smell like your body wash and your laundry detergent.” He sniffs again. “Something sharp, I assume your medication, and…” he tries to pinpoint the sweet tone, “honeysuckle?”

“Honeysuckle?” Stiles echoes as Derek leans back.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t add that Stiles’ skin also has an acute bite of _ashes_ and _smoke_ too. Oddly enough, the smell doesn’t actually unnerve him. It’s not like the old house, more like a campfire, something bright that gives off warmth and comfort. But it’s not like he can explain _that_ without sounding strange.

“Weird.” Stiles taps his knee.

“Not the weirdest I’ve ever smelled.” Derek laughs as Stiles rolls his eyes. “Why is it weird to you?”

“I don’t know. My best friend Scott says I smell like something else.”

Derek raises his eyebrows, thinking that Scott is probably the werewolf that he smells. “What does he say you smell like?”

Stiles smiles impishly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Derek narrows his eyes, about to do… well, something that he’s not quite sure of, when the kitchen light turns on, signaling that the Sheriff is home.

There’s disappointment lacing Stiles’ tone when he mumbles, “He’s home early.”

In a way, Derek’s a little relieved because he’s not really sure what he was about to do. “Maybe you’ll actually go to bed before three.”

Stiles snorts and hops off the swing. “Highly unlikely.”

“Good night, Stiles,” Derek says as Stiles makes his way to the porch.

“Night Derek,” Stiles responds softly, slipping inside.

\-----

It ends up not mattering that Stiles did, in fact, get to bed before three.

He has nightmare after nightmare, featuring Derek as the main horror.

The images are completely incongruous with what he knows of the werewolf and yet… he wonders each time he wakes up – again and again – if Derek is real at all or just some person that he fabricated to stave off his loneliness.

He sits scrunched against his headboard, arms wrapped around his knees, and stares at his pill bottles until the sun comes up and he gives up on rest completely.

\-----

It’s the night of the Black Moon when Laura finally declares that she has no fucking clue where the Spark is before driving them to the vet clinic.

They go in through the unlocked door, despite the fact that it’s nearing eleven o’clock, fulling intending on heading to the back of the place, but they’re stopped at the counter by a barrier.

“Mountain ash,” Laura growls.

“Yes,” comes a dry voice, proceeded by a bald black man wiping his hands on a white towel, “it’s particularly good for keeping out unwanted guests.” He looks at them, face impassive, and asks, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“You were the Emissary for the Hale pack,” Laura states, lifting her chin. “You have information that we need.”

Derek rolls his eyes at his sister’s display. He can tell the man won’t respond favorably to being threatened, can vaguely remember how he never fell for the tricks they wanted to play on him.

True to Derek’s assumption, Deaton gives a small, enigmatic smile. “Interesting.”

“What is?” Laura snaps.

“You look just like Talia when you do that.”

The comment deflates Laura’s aggressive stance, just a touch. “I remember you. You’ve always been a tight-lipped jerk.”

Before his sister can makes things worse, Derek says, “We’re looking for something.”

“Are you?” Deaton asks, gaze running over Laura before switching to study Derek.

“Yes.”

Deaton glances out the front window before opening the wooden gate. “Follow me.”

They look at each other before following, Laura in the lead. When they get into the back room, Deaton is scrubbing a metal exam table with another white cloth.

“We need to know where the Spark is.” Laura leans over the exam table threateningly. “And I think you know where it is.”

“Who,” Deaton says.

“What?”

“I know _who_ the Spark is.” Deaton scrubs at a stubborn spot on the table.

“The Spark is a person?”

“Of course it is.” Deaton stops, looking back up. “Well, _he_ is a person. He has the same abilities and attributes as his mother, who was the Spark that _your_ mother worked with in her time.”

And Derek suddenly has a very strange feeling pulling at his chest.

_Sparklers were our thing, mine and my mom’s. She loved the smell._

_I look just like her, you know, my mom._

“Who is he?” Laura’s eyes flash red. “How do I find him?”

Deaton gives Laura a hard look. “You must be very careful. The Spark that I know doesn’t have any idea who he is, _what_ he is. He’s under the impression that his gifts are a disease of the mind.”

And that confirms it. _Fuck_. A small noise comes from Derek’s throat at the realization.

Laura turns to him. “What? What is it?”

Deaton eyes him. “You know who he is.”

Derek nods slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

“Derek, seriously?” Laura almost-shouts. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know!” Derek protests. “Not until just now.”

“You really must be careful with him, Derek,” Deaton insists, focused solely on him. “If he feels threatened, the Spark within him will lash out and it may shatter his mind.”

Derek lets the implications sink in. He glances over at Laura. She’s fuming where she stands, clearly incredibly angry with him. He has to be delicate, has to be the one who talks to Stiles about what’s going on.

“I think,” Deaton announces, “that you’d better bring the artifact to him and see what happens before you decide anything else.”

“Fine.” Laura snatches the statue from the vet. “Come on, Derek. Show me where this kid lives.” She storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

“Uh,” Derek starts, wondering if he should apologize, but he sees no reaction on Deaton’s face. He narrows his eyes, muttering begrudgingly, “Thanks for your help, I guess.”

“Certainly, Derek.” Deaton follows him to the door. “I expect another visit soon.”

“Yeah…” Derek jogs to the Camaro, ducking inside just as Laura peels out of the parking lot. “Jesus, Laur, let me get inside first, would you?”

“Did you die?” she asks archly.

Derek rolls his eyes and stares out the window, directing Laura in a quiet voice.

“What’s he like?” Laura asks as they get closer to Stiles’ house.

“He…” Derek shrugs, suddenly unable to describe Stiles at all, like being asked his favorite food and suddenly not remembering the name of anything he’d ever eaten. “He smokes a lot of weed?”

“What?”

“What?” he asks, looking at her.

She blinks at him for a moment before shaking her head. “You like him.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t really know what that has to do with anything. Go left here.”

“Whatever.” Laura takes the turn.

Laura pulls the Camaro up a few houses down from Stiles’, both of them studying the house. “Nice.”

“I’ve never been around the front before,” he muses, almost to himself.

“Jesus, creepy much?” Laura scoffs, reaching for the door handle.

“No.” Derek puts a hand on her arm. “I think I should get him by myself.”

“Really?” Her affronted tone is enough to make his wolf cringe, but he nods and she sighs. “Fine. Grab the kid and bring him to the house.”

“Okay.” He squeezes her arm a little then gets out, questing for Stiles’ scent as he approaches the gate that leads into the backyard. He jumps over it, landing softly and approaching the swing where Stiles is sitting. “Stiles.”

Stiles jumps. “Shit, Derek, you scared me.” Stiles smiles at him. “What’s going on? You look like you’re on a mission.”

Derek tries to keep his voice level, to calm the excitement and fear inside him. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Uh, okay.” Stiles leans forward. “What is it?”

“I…” he panics, suddenly unsure what to say. He goes with, “I need you to give me a ride to my old house. I’m meeting Laura there but it would take too long for me to run. Plus, there’s a Hunter base on Maple.”

“A hunter base?” Stiles tilts his head. “Why would it matter if hunters lived on Maple?”

“The Hunters I’m talking about aren’t regular hunters. They go after people like me.” Derek knows he can’t get into that right now. “I’ll explain more later, okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles shrugs. “Sure. Let me just put this inside.” He hops off the swing and heads inside. “Meet me out front?”

Derek nods, relieved that Stiles trusts him so easily. He feels like a jerk though, when he thinks about why he’s asking the teen out into the woods. He pushes away the guilty thoughts, thinking of what might happen, if the artifact works.

He goes around the front of the house and finds Stiles standing next to a powder blue Jeep that’s clearly seen better days.

“Hey, don’t judgy-eyebrow Roscoe,” Stiles warns as he opens the creaky door and shuts it with a hard slam. “She’s a classic.”

“She looks like she’s going to fall apart any second,” Derek says as he gets in, trying to slam the door hard enough to shut it but not hard enough to dent it.

Stiles grins and starts the engine, shifting into reverse with a hard jerk of the stick. “Well she’s getting your werewolf ass to your destination faster, so can it.”

Derek holds on as Roscoe’s engine coughs and jumps before they go forward. He says a silent prayer that the Jeep will make it and gives directions, noting the rising levels of Stiles’ anxiety the further into the woods they get. The Jeep’s headlights finally flash over the Camaro. “Here.”

Stiles eyes the woods dubiously but puts the Jeep in park before climbing out. “I’m trusting you not to murder me in the woods,” he states, zipping up his hoodie and shoving his hands in the pockets.

“I’m not gonna murder you,” Derek says, shutting the door, "and I definitely wouldn’t do it in the woods.” He jerks his head. “This way.”

Stiles makes an exasperated sound but he follows. “Dude, this is exactly the place to murder me. It’s the perfect scene.”

“I’m not talking about murdering you anymore,” Derek informs him.

“Whatever. Be that way.” Stiles starts humming under his breath as they go further. When they enter the clearing, Laura is waiting for them in front of the house. Stiles stops humming and asks, “Who’s this?”

“My sister, Laura.”

“Oh, _Alpha_ Laura. Nice to finally meet you.” Stiles gives a goofy wave.

“Jesus, Der, how much did you tell this kid?” Laura hisses under her breath.

“Enough,” Derek answers.

Laura narrows her eyes at Stiles. “Are you sure he’s the right one?”

Derek rolls his eyes, looking at Stiles. “What does Scott say you smell like?”

Stiles huffs a laugh. “Random, dude.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Derek reminds him.

“And I elected not to listen to you,” Stiles responds cheekily.

“Just answer the question, Stiles.”

“Fine.” Stiles shrugs, waving a hand in front of himself. “Scott says I smell like smoke, like a hearth fire, as if he even knows what that smells like, the dork. Probably got it off a candle or something.”

“Hearth fire?” Just like Derek guessed, that apparently means something to Laura. She runs her eyes over Stiles again with an appraising light in her gaze.

“Yeah.” Stiles looks between them. “Why?”

Derek moves forward and stands in front of Stiles. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Okay.” Stiles says hesitantly. “Is this gonna be another bullet thing?”

“Bullet thing?” Laura asks, drawing even with them.

“A Hunter shot me a couple weeks ago.”

“I thought I told you to stay away from Maple,” she snaps, clearly exasperated.

“Not important right now,” he reminds her and turns back to Stiles. “It’s not like that, really. I just need you to hold this.” He pulls the artifact from his jacket pocket, holding it out to Stiles.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to inspect it without taking it. “What is it?”

“It’s the artifact.”

Stiles’ other eyebrow goes up. “Really?”

“Yes.” Derek moves a little closer. “And I need you to hold it.”

“What the hell for? Shits and giggles?” Stiles smiles then starts to frown as he looks between them. “Wait… is this? You’re not seriously insinuating that I’m the Spark, are you?”

“Told him fucking everything, didn’t you, Chatty Cathy?” Laura gripes under her breath before saying louder, “Deaton said you _are_ the Spark.”

“Deaton.” Stiles gives them both a _what the fuck_ look. “As in the veterinarian, Deaton?”

“Among other things.”

Stiles taps his foot, chewing on his lip. “You know this sounds totally crazy, right? Even for werewolves?”

“Stiles,” Derek murmurs, “I promise, Deaton can explain everything to you, better than we can. And you should go see him, but I need you to try this first, _please_.”

Stiles stares at him, brown eyes wide and searching. Finally, he licks his lips and nods the tiniest bit. “Okay. I can’t promise that it’ll work, but… I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.” Derek holds out the statue again.

Stiles takes a deep breath, reaching out and plucking the statue from Derek’s hands, scrunching his eyes shut.

They all tense, waiting for something to happen.

After a minute, Stiles cracks open one of his eyes. “Anything?”

Disappointment washes over Derek like a tidal wave. “No.”

Laura blows out an angry breath. “Dammit. I knew it wasn’t him.” She waves an angry hand at Stiles. “I mean, look at him! He looks like Bambi and Little Red Riding Hood in one!”

“Rude!” Stiles protests, hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know that this hoodie is my favorite and I can’t help how big my eyes are!”

“Shut up!” Laura snarls, advancing on Stiles.

“Whoa!” Stiles backs up and stumbles over his feet, landing hard on his ass. “Dammit!” He holds up his hand, shaking it at Laura. “Look at what you made me do!” There’s blood running down his palm. He shakes it again and blood goes flying to land in drops on the leaves. “I hate bleeding!”

Laura growls, her face shifting and claws lengthening. “I’ll show you _bleeding_ , you annoying-”

Before Derek can step in and stop Laura, Stiles jumps to his feet, shoving the statue in Laura’s face. “I can’t help you, okay? I’m just some fucked up idiot who smokes too much weed to keep from seeing shit like your face right now!”

Laura goes to rip the statue from Stiles hand. The second that she touches it, a reverberation in the air makes them all stagger. Derek looks at the ground, feeling like a chasm has opened up under his feet. When he looks up, Laura is slowly backing away from Stiles.

Derek backs up too because the normal brown color of Stiles’ eyes is gone, the irises completely swallowed up by white.

Stiles blinks slowly and starts walking toward the house.

“You want to bring your family back.” His voice is whispery, his words echoing faintly, as if many voices are speaking at once.

“Yes,” Laura breathes, all anger gone from her face as she gazes upon Stiles like he’s the answer to her prayers. And he is, in a way. Derek feels hope pulling at him, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Choose one,” Stiles intones.

“Wait, only one?” Laura’s voice cracks with her heartbreak.

Stiles nods minutely, his all-white eyes even more unnerving when he pins them with his gaze. “Only one.”

They look at each other.

Derek’s mind races. He thinks of every one of his family members that they lost in the fire, all the life and love gone in a blaze that razed their home and them to nothing but ashes. His parents, his other sibling, his uncles, his aunts, his cousins, his grandmother…

One name stands clear of the rest.

_Cora_.

He says it out loud and Laura nods, tears streaming down her face. “Cora,” she tells Stiles. “If it can only be one of them, Cora, please.”

“Done.” Stiles’ head tilts to the side, like he’s listening to something they can’t hear. “Your mom approves.” With that statement, he claps his hands and the clearing is lit with a bright white light.

Derek falls to his knees, palms pressed to his eyes. When his vision clears, he hears a soft gasp followed by intense coughing and a voice that’s so like their little sister’s and yet, not. “Derek? Laura? What’s… what’s going on?”

He looks up and sees a teenage girl with long brown hair, brown eyes blinking in confusion.

“Cora?” Laura asks, clawing her way across the ground to their sister.

“What’s going on?” Cora asks shakily, looking around. “Where are we? Why do you guys look different?”

Laura takes off her over shirt, draping it around Cora’s shoulders. “There’s a lot that’s changed, baby girl. It’s such a long story.”

Cora sniffs, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t understand. It was hot and then it was dark. I don’t…” She presses at her forehead. “What’s happening?” Her eyes flash gold as she starts to panic.

Before she can freak out too badly, Laura wraps her arms around their sister and pulls her close, scenting her. Derek comes around the other side, wrapping his arms around both of them.

They rock gently together, their scents mingling for the first time in years, though now Cora’s has the slightest thread of _ash_ weaving through it.

Derek doesn’t even notice Stiles is gone until Laura asks, “Where’d Bambi go?”

He looks around, trying to spot Stiles, but the Spark is nowhere to be found. “I need to find him.”

Laura nods. “Go. I’ll stay with her.”

Derek reaches out, pressing his hand to Cora’s neck once more, before taking off to where the cars were parked. When he gets there, the Camaro is still where it was but the Jeep is gone.

He goes back to his sisters, resolving to find Stiles later, to thank him for everything.

\-----

Stiles isn’t sure how he makes it home, but sure enough, he finds himself stumbling through the back gate.

His dad almost jumps off the porch, hugging him so hard he can’t breathe for a minute.

“Oh my god, Stiles. Where have you been?” his dad demands, pulling back to look at him. “Why are you covered in dirt?” He rubs a thumb over Stiles’ cheek, examining the smudge. “Soot?”

“I think…” Stiles fights back a sob, “I think that I might know what’s wrong with me.”

“Stiles, what are you talking about?” His dad looks heartbroken, worry pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Did you sleepwalk again?”

“No, no,” he reassures his dad. “But we need to go see Deaton.”

“The vet?”

“Among other things,” Stiles mutters and puts his hands over his dad’s. “I need you to trust me, okay?”

His dad, god bless him, just nods. “Okay.”

It’s not a pleasant visit, to say the least.

Deaton drops the bombshell that Stiles’ “condition” isn’t a psychological issue, but his abilities manifesting and his awareness of the supernatural making itself known. He also states that he’s known this for years.

Stiles can admit, though, that seeing his dad punch Deaton in the face is almost worth all the trouble he’s been through.

Deaton takes it reasonably well, wiping blood off his mouth before offering his services as a sort of magical Obi-Wan and his sister’s services as a therapist that’s “in the know” so that Stiles can adjust to his new life with all the information available to him.

“I just want you to know…” his dad says as they sit in the Arby’s parking lot and eat curly fries, “that I’m sorry.”

Stiles swallows his mouthful of fries. “For what?”

His dad shakes his head. “I should’ve told you. About everything.” He nods out at the darkness that spans around their small halo of light.

Stiles picks at the paper from his burger. “I can understand why you didn’t. If I hadn’t met Derek, I don’t think I’d have believed you.” He shrugs. “Or I would have thought I was imagining things.”

“So you brought his sister back to life?” His dad gives him an amused look. “You never do anything by half, do you?”

Stiles smiles. “Guess not.”

His dad nods, taking a sip of his milkshake. “I want you to be careful, okay? With the training. Don’t… don’t push yourself too hard. Give yourself time to adjust to everything. I want you to talk to Marin about how you’re feeling, if you’re having any issues, okay?”

“Yeah. I will.” He stares down at the rest of his curly fries and suddenly has no appetite. Because, speaking of talking to people, he’s _got_ to talk to Scott. For now, though, he focuses on his dad, how good it is to see him smile without the pinching at the corners of his eyes. “I still get to smoke though, right?”

His dad rolls his eyes. “God, that _would_ be what you’d ask, after all this.”

“That’s not an answer,” he needles with a grin.

His dad grumbles something under his breath, reaching out to shove Stiles’ head gently before he starts up the cruiser and heads toward the house.

Stiles sleeps like a baby for the first time in _years_.

In the morning, he goes back to the vet clinic, worry tightening his throat. He isn’t sure how this conversation is going to go and the not-knowing is kind of killing him. He takes a deep breath right before he walks in the door. “You can do this.” He goes inside and calls out, “Scott?”

“Yeah!” his best friend answers from the depths of the clinic. “Come on back!”

Stiles takes another deep breath and makes his way back to the storage room where Scott is stacking bags of dog food.

“Hey bro,” Scott greets happily, hauling up a big bag of food. “What’s up?”

And Stiles can’t help it – _he has very poor self-control, really, it’s a problem_ – and he blurts out, “Are you a werewolf?”

Scott jumps violently and kibble is suddenly going everywhere, the sound of it hitting the concrete floor overwhelming for a moment. He blinks at Stiles, mouth open a little, and Stiles can _see_ the moment that Scott considers lying to him.

“Please,” he whispers, “please tell me the truth. I’m so tired of people lying to me.”

Scott nods, letting the bag slide to the floor, holding out hands that are tipped with claws, just like Derek’s and Laura’s. “Yeah. I am.” His familiar brown eyes, the most familiar eyes in Stiles’ life other than his dad’s and his own, turn molten gold.

Stiles nods, once, twice, before he slumps against the wall and slides to the floor. “Fuck. He was right.”

“Who was right?” Scott asks, crouching down at this side. His eyes and hands are back to normal and he places a gentle palm on Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles, how did you know?”

Stiles looks up at his best friend in the whole world and says, “We need to talk.”

\-----

“Cora, you’ve only been alive for three weeks. Put the hacksaw down,” Laura scolds, then calls up the stairs, “Yo, Derek!”

“What?” he shouts back, wrist deep in the remnants of his childhood bedroom’s floorboards.

“Someone’s driving up.”

He looks out the door, frowning. “Okay?”

Clearly exasperated, she barks, “Just come out here, will you?”

“Okay!” He dusts off his hands the best he can and goes out onto the landing, leaping to the floor and startling Cora. She scowls at him as he heads out onto the porch with a smirk. “Well?”

Laura rolls her eyes. “It’s Bambi. Figured you’d want to talk to him.” She claps him on the shoulder and heads back into the house. “Seriously, Cora, I’m not going to tell you again.”

Derek looks over just as Stiles emerges from the trees. He’d meant to see Stiles before now, but every time he tried, no one was home. He ended up leaving a note, both thanking Stiles for everything, and apologizing for springing something like that on him.

But it’s been two and a half weeks since he left the note and he’s gotten no response – he honestly figured Stiles didn’t want anything to do with them.

“So I talked to Deaton and apparently, brace yourself,” Stiles rocks back on his heels, pausing for effect before stating, “I’m a Spark.”

Derek snorts. “Are you really?”

“I know it probably comes as a _total_ shock to you,” Stiles says loftily. He clicks his tongue, looking around, clearly noting the dumpster and the new materials in the back of their rented truck. “How’s your sister?”

It makes him warm that he can quip, “Which one?”

Stiles states in a dramatic whisper, “The Chosen One.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “She’s adjusting.”

“Cool, cool.”  

“How are you?”

Stiles wobbles his hand back and forth in the air. “I’m working through some things.” He perks up a little and snaps his fingers. “Oh, I finally talked to Scott.”

“And?”

“And he is _definitely_ a werewolf.” Stiles shakes his head. “Kills me that you were right, you know.”

Derek snorts. “You’ll live.”

“Probably.” Stiles chews on his lip. “So, you guys sticking around?”

“Think so.” Derek looks around the clearing, reminding himself to get some wildflower seeds to spread around, so they can roll around in them like they used to as kids.

“You should meet them, my werewolf friends.” Stiles nods at the house. “Laura too. And Cora, of course, if she’s up to it.”

“Friends, plural?”

“Yeah, my other friend Isaac is the second werewolf you mentioned.” He shakes his head. “Ridiculous. Werewolves spending the night at might house and playing my video games and eating my food and I was none the wiser.”

Derek asks the question he’s been dying to for weeks. “Who’s their Alpha?”

Stiles sucks air through his teeth. “They don’t have one. Bite and run, Deaton says. So it’s just them. And us, of course, me and Erica and Boyd.” He grins. “That’s our pack.”

Derek’s impressed that the two teens didn’t kill half the town without their Alpha around to help them control the shift. “So you’re here facilitating a meeting between two packs?” he asks, leaning against the porch and crossing his arms.

Stiles nods, eyes dancing with amusement. “I guess I am.”

“Well, then,” Derek says with a slow smile, “I suppose you should speak to my Alpha, _Emissary_ Stilinski.”

“Yeah. Alright.” Stiles huffs a laugh, something like happiness radiating off of him as he walks inside. He cups his hands around his mouth and crows, “Oh, Alpha Lauraaa! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Derek laughs at the string of curses from his sister and follows Stiles into the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> Stiles is unsure if Derek (who appears in beta shift) is real, due to his condition* (having hallucinations, hearing things, unable to discern reality and delusion).  
> *His "condition" is based upon having magical abilities that appear to "normal" people as symptoms of a mental disorder.  
> Several times, something supernatural happens and Stiles is convinced he's having another "episode".  
> Stiles had nightmares and panic attacks about the situations happening to/around him.  
> Scott, Isaac, and the Sheriff lie to Stiles about supernatural things in town, worried that it will trigger his condition.  
> Deaton withholds information about Stiles' "condition" from everyone. (Dick.)
> 
> \-----
> 
> I hope you liked it. :)
> 
> Love ya, babbies.
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


End file.
